


The Serpent of Sussex

by sabraneadaz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 770AD, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Banter, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dark Ages, Dragons, Early Middle Ages, Established Relationship, Fluff, Folklore, Forests, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, I suppose??? The concept is on crack, Knights - Freeform, Legends, M/M, Medieval, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology References, Pre-Arrangement (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snakes, Sort Of, Sussex, Tempting and Thwarting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabraneadaz/pseuds/sabraneadaz
Summary: “Is it too much trouble to announce yourself?” Aziraphale asked tetchily, and brushed a couple of small stones from his palm. They left little pink indents in the flesh.“Vigilancssse, angel,” Crowley hissed – but he conceded; “Nexsst time I’ll hiss at you, or ssomething.”(...the truth about St Leonard the Dragon Slayer)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 106





	The Serpent of Sussex

**Author's Note:**

> I finally wrote the fic that has been in the back of my mind ever since I discovered the husbands' retirement to Sussex last May. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3 
> 
> _"Here the Adders never sting,_  
>  _Nor the Nightingales sing."_

In theory the life of a hermit was a fantastic prospect; seclusion deep in the Andredesweald where he could study his religious manuscripts at his leisure and without interruption, but in reality a hermitage wasn’t the cosiest of residences. Thankfully a subtle miracle here and there relieved his discomforts.

One small mercy was the glorious heatwave England was currently blessed with.

Aziraphale had taken to strolling through the forest at regular intervals during his seclusion, doggedly avoiding the busier thoroughfares and stopping in particularly nice spots to peruse whichever book was stowed in his robes. After all, if he were to be a hermit then he would take ‘seclusion’ as word of God.

There was something really quite wonderful in a morning walk before resting on a grassy bank, long tunic hitched up above his knees (after all, there was no-one around to see), and the golden glow of the midday sun warming his face and hands.

The scene before him was picture perfect. A slick, still pond suffocated with algae, heat rising off the verdant foliage cushioning it all around, and lush trees standing tall and strong in the still, hot air. The forest was never silent. Even in the midst of this unseasonable heatwave there was a breeze tickling the grass against his sandaled toes, and below the sound of his absent-minded humming was the drone of dragonflies flitting across the water’s surface.

Aziraphale carefully rearranged the leaves of the manuscript he had been reading, and tucked them safely back into the pocket sewn to the inside of his robes. There was an itch under his skin which he couldn’t shake. Something which told him to be alert; that something had subtly shifted the fabric of the day around him.

The dragonflies were now absent from the pond’s surface. The drone of their activity had faded, as if they’d burrowed away in hiding. The bobbing bodies of nightingales in the thickets were still and tense.

Gradually, Aziraphale became aware of a sound on the very edge of his hearing; an unending brush of sound against grass and dirt, a flicking thrum which seemed to approach the dry pond.

And then a cluster of dragonflies flew upwards from the pond in a dazzle of activity, at least three of them shooting almost into Aziraphale’s face before banking upwards and away. Aziraphale recoiled and caught his fall with an elbow thrust into the dry grass behind him - then immediately became aware of a presence around his body – a large black beast of a thing circling behind his torso – threading under his arm – the weight of it on his chest and a flash of red underbelly – and –

“Crowley?” He asked.

The serpent’s head dipped down and the large yellow eyes seemed to smirk at him.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale huffed in displeasure as he righted himself – despite the weight of Crowley’s serpent-form heavy on his shoulders.

“Is it too much trouble to announce yourself?” Aziraphale asked tetchily, and brushed a couple of small stones from his palm. They left little pink indents in the flesh.

“Vigilancssse, angel,” Crowley hissed – but he conceded; “Nexsst time I’ll hiss at you, or ssomething.”

He’d encircled Aziraphale’s torso twice now, with his head raised up in front of Aziraphale’s chest, and his tail wrapped firm around Aziraphale’s calf.

It was rather…intimate.

Aziraphale blushed.

“And well that you do,” he reprimanded half-heartedly. “I’d say you’ve frightened half the forest off with that stunt.”

Crowley hissed out a chuckle. It echoed in Aziraphale’s right ear and then in the left as he wound around him. Always moving, that broad solid muscle confidently coiling around him. Aziraphale fought not to shudder.

He imagined he could feel Crowley’s breath in his ear, the flicker of his tongue against it as he spoke.

Aziraphale pushed himself to his feet and tapped Crowley’s tail gently. He obligingly curled around him once more so his tail slipped free of Aziraphale’s calf and allowed his tunic to tumble down to his feet. Crowley’s heavy coils were now draped around Aziraphale’s neck.

He swallowed.

“So, what are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked as he ambled along the path. Fine, dry dirt dusted his sandals and smudged on the tips of his toes.

“Jusst a bit of reconaissancssee,” Crowley clarified unhelpfully.

“The last I heard – you were interfering with Mercian politics.”

Aziraphale’s voice was delicate, probing. It had been a fair amount of time since he and Crowley had crossed paths.

“Æthelbald wasssn’t my doing.” Crowley said.

“Never suggested it, my dear. But I’ve heard word about the spot of bother up in the midlands.”

“It wass civil war, angel, a bit more than a ssspot of bother.”

Aziraphale ignored him.

“I suppose – _downstairs_ – want you to keep an eye on the situation?”

Crowley turned a bright eye on him.

“Let’ss jusst ssay that the Princsse of Hell is impresssed with King Offa’s lussst for conquessst.”

They fell silent for a few minutes. The only sound was Aziraphale’s padding footsteps against the solid-packed dirt on the trail. He took the path that wound down alongside a little tributary to the river Arun. It was more overgrown here, and he delicately picked his way over the roots threaded through the lip of the riverbank.

Crowley shifted away from Aziraphale so he could twist and face him full on.

“Look, angel. All I’m ssaying isss…don’t expect these lands to be peaceful for much longer.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “You’re here to warn me, then? I do have my own sources, you know.”

Crowley hissed. Aziraphale imagined it would be more of a snort if he were currently capable of such an action.

“I thought the whole point of hermitage was to avoid gossssip?”

The corner of Crowley’s scaly mouth seemed to curl.

“It’s only prudent to keep abreast of such things. Especially when they bear the mark of _demonic_ intervention.”

“As I ssaid, angel. I’m jussst doing reconaissancsse.”

“Be that as it may, I do hope good Offa has no immediate plans to invade Sussex. I’m rather partial to it.”

The shallow stream had dried up now, no doubt as result of the heatwave. The ground beside Aziraphale was raised up almost above his head. Thick roots broke through the ground, stretching down towards the absent water. Greenery seemed to flourish, and leaves were even sprouting up on the bed of the stream itself.

A thought suddenly occurred to Aziraphale.

“Crowley…how long have you being doing ‘reconnaissance’, exactly?”

He stopped in his tracks. “You wouldn’t happen to know about these rumours of dragons, would you?”

Crowley dropped from his shoulder then, and slithered up a root – a trunk – and wrapped himself loosely around a branch in front of Aziraphale’s face.

“Do I look like a dragon to you, angel?” he teased.

Aziraphale gladly took the opportunity to appraise Crowley in his slithering glory. It always surprised him somehow, just how _big_ Crowley was when he was a snake. His body was so long, long enough to almost conceal the branch with his coils, and heavy enough that the solid oak drooped with his weight. His scales were a gorgeous patent black, offset by his foreboding vermillion underbelly. Aziraphale wanted to trace those red scales with his fingers.

“Well,” he said, voice considering, “I suppose you’re missing the wings. Could you manifest them in this form?”

The idea was amusing.

“Can’t imagine they’d be very useful down on the ground,” Crowley replied, and dropped his head level with Aziraphale.

“Not for slithering, no,” Aziraphale agreed. “But perhaps for sowing seeds of fear amongst the good people of Sussex.”

“You know, that’sss a good idea, angel. Posssitively _wily_.”

Aziraphale frowned.

Crowley lowered himself back to Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he tried not to feel too relieved about it.

“You should keep it in mind in cassse you fancccy a spot of fomenting sssometime.”

“Oh, stop it, Crowley.”

Crowley hissed a laugh, and somehow Aziraphale felt lighter, almost buoyant. He continued their exploration along the path, carefully avoiding the nettles that stretched out towards his feet.

They were down a shallow valley, but the peak of the hill was fairly close to a footpath from a tiny hamlet nearby.

“As interesssting place to choose for a reclussse,” Crowley commented, idly.

“Oh, you wouldn’t like it,” Aziraphale said. “Not much around here aside from a rest stop for horses.”

“Ugh,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale hummed in agreement.

“A rather nice fellow feeds and waters them nearby, and there’s a lovely widow who runs an inn to put the travellers up. She makes this wonderful apple tart, really, you must come with me and try it sometime.”

“Sure, angel,” Crowley replied. He’d settled and rested his head fully on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale felt a warm contentment diffuse through him.

“You’re projecting,” Crowley said, lazily.

“What?”

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled in consternation as he was pulled out of his thoughts and saw the flowers sprouting alongside him as he walked. Delicate cream bulbs flowered from the foliage and spread into thick dotted beds about his feet.

“Oh,” he said, and felt his cheeks pinking.

From the corner of his eye he saw Crowley casting a considering gaze over the flowerbeds, before hissing gently and tucking his snout into Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but rest a hand gently on the shiny black scales in his middle.

“Lily of the Valley,” he noted. He felt a bit embarrassed. The lilies had come out early that year in the unseasonably warm spring, and had wilted quickly in the warm weather. Now they bloomed beautifully again.

“Sprung from Eve’s tearsss when she was banished from Eden,” Crowley replied.

“Oh, stuff and nonsense,” Aziraphale reprimanded.

“Humanss love a sstory,” Crowley said.

They were interrupted by a loud shout from above.

“Dragon!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale startled.

Footsteps thundered along the crest of the hill, swiftly bearing down on them. Aziraphale stumbled back in his surprise and his ankle caught in bramble. Thorns scratched sharp through his skin and beaded blood as he fell back onto the stream-bed, landing with a resounding _thump_ on his bum.

Crowley unwound himself lithely from his neck and shoulders, curling into a strong, muscled black coil on the ground.

“Azssiraphale!” he hissed.

Aziraphale, though dazed, lifted himself to his feet and brushed down his robes with fluttering hands. He was only more bewildered to look over at Crowley and see a pair of glossy, black wings rising high above his scaly body.

“Crowley, what are you doing!?”

“Jusst play along!” Crowley said, and reared back as if to strike just as three men rounded the last of the trees and entered the clearing.

Crowley dove forward, feigning a strike to Aziraphale’s side, and the angel stumbled out of the way.

“Oi!” one of the men shouted. The three of them had come around Aziraphale, two of them flanking him on the banks and one standing back on the rise of tangle of roots.

He gestured as Aziraphale turned to face him and then tossed a sword the short distance between them.

Purely on instinct Aziraphale reached out with both hands and caught it firmly around the grip, palms finding purchase between the pommel and cross-guard like he did it every day of his life.

“Quick! Slay the dragon!” One of the men shouted.

In the hubbub Aziraphale saw Crowley had recoiled, and was rather dramatically wriggling in a circle on the ground, slick-looking scales sliding and writhing, with only his rich yellow eyes still in the centre. His glorious wings rose high above him, utterly splendorous with his feathers spread out in aggression.

Aziraphale wanted to groom them.

“I-I…” he said, thoroughly baffled by the turn the day had taken.

“Vermin!” The third man snarled. “You’ve terrorised this forest for too long!”

He went to lunge at Crowley with his own sword, and in a fright Aziraphale shot forward into striking range.

Crowley attacked again, this time aiming for the neck and effecting a ‘near miss’ for both of them as Aziraphale swung his sword around to intercept. This time Crowley curled back to a tight cluster of trees, half-concealed in the thick green bushes.

Aziraphale advanced again, swift on his sandaled feet, and pursued the serpent back across the threshold of the trees.

Just as he disappeared beyond the throng Crowley popped back up in front of him, failing to suppress a delighted giggle.

“Quick,” he said, “you need to pretend you’ve ssssslain me.”

“Crowley, this is- this is ridiculous. You’ve done this on purpose haven’t you – all this talk of stories and dragons and-!”

“No time, angel. Look, I’ve got to dash before this turns into a proper sssscrum.”

Aziraphale huffed and then after a fumbling moment he took a deep breath. He lay the blade of the sword flat on his palm and then after a quick glance at Crowley he clenched his fist around the blade and drew it through the flesh.

Crowley hissed in shock then, and a sharp shudder overtook the length of him.

“Right,” he said weakly, as Aziraphale smeared his blood over the length of the blade.

“Ciao, angel. Shout something dramatic!"

Crowley tucked his wings back into the ether and then curled around Aziraphale’s wrist – slithered over his hand in farewell – and disappeared into the forest.

“Begone, foul fiend! And may no serpent ever again enter this land!”

The three men materialised at Aziraphale’s side in that moment.

“By God,” murmured one of the men, taking Aziraphale’s sword from his limp hand and surveying the bloodied blade. “You slew the dragon.”

They fell silent in awe, and the forest was hushed with the absence of the nightingale’s song. Aziraphale looked down at his hands then, and saw only creamy, unmarred skin.

A drop of blood fell from his ankle to the flowerbeds below.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the legend of St Leonard slaying the dragon in the High Weald in Sussex - in an area now called St. Leonard's Forest. The legend goes that he was living as a hermit in the area sometime around late 700AD. He slew the dragon and where his blood fell, lilies of the valley bloomed. He banished all serpents from the forest, as well as the nightingales who interrupted his prayers with their singing. 
> 
> It's thought there's some link between the legend and the real-life iguanadons, as their bones have been found in the local village of Southwater. If you check out the wiki page you can see all the mythology surrounding them in Sussex. There's an iguanadon statue in Southwater square and a dragon statue in Horsham park as well as a fairly new gin called 'Horsham Serpent Gin' - so you can see how embedded the story is in the town's mythology. Horsham is the hamlet mentioned in this story and it's close to the lily beds in St. Leonard's Forest, although the earliest records of the town are c. 900AD. As far as I remember the iguanadon bones are in Horsham museum. As for St. Leonard - he was some French dude that likely never resided in Sussex. 
> 
> I would definitely encourage anyone interested to look into the legend because you can find some fascinating writing from across the centuries: 
> 
> _"This serpent (or dragon, as some call it) is reputed to be nine feete, or rather more, in length, and shaped almost in the forme of an axeltree of a cart; a quantitie of thickness in the middest, and somewhat smaller at both endes. The former part, which he shootes forth as a necke, is supposed to be an elle long; with a white ring, as it were, of scales about it. The scales along hist backe seem to be blackish, and so much as is discovered under his bellie, appeareth to be red; for I speak of no nearer description than of a reasonable ocular distance."_
> 
> \- [Dragons & Serpents in Sussex](http://www.sussexarch.org.uk/saaf/dragon.html) (It's so worth reading the whole pamphlet this passage is taken from!)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [folieassdeux](http://folieassdeux.tumblr.com)  
> Crowley and Aziraphale love each other and I love comments :) <3


End file.
